John was sitting at the desk, cheek squashed against his left fist to keep himself braced and upright. He was listening to Sherlock pace their disaster zone of a flat, muttering to himself, sometimes directing comments at the skull or at John, sometimes plucking notes on his violin, filling the air with snatches of music. The monologue had changed since earlier that evening – or yesterday, John wasn't even sure anymore. They had more information now, but it still seemed useless. William McKinney didn't know who his hired killer was or how to contact him. They had no idea who would be next. A shudder ran through John as he realized he'd thought that.
We can stop there being a 'next', he told himself.
He was resting his eyes, thinking of their bed. The chair in which he was sitting was getting uncomfortable, but his own armchair was buried and off-limits. The surface of the desk was hard against his arm even if it was somewhat padded with files. But their bed wasn't covered in files. The bedroom remained steadfastly a work-free zone. John had drawn the line in the very early days after finding Sherlock in bed next to him one morning with a bottle of hydrochloric acid and some Litmus strips.
He thought about hauling himself up and walking through the litany of rambling words that his husband was spouting into the bedroom and crawling into bed. Maybe he'd slap his hand over Sherlock's mouth on the way by and force the detective to come with him. They could… John didn't even know. He was too tired to do anything but realized with a mild jolt that he sort of wanted to. He wondered if Sherlock would be offended if he fell asleep halfway through. Or a quarter of the way through. Or right at the beginning.
Best not, he told himself with an inward sigh. They had enough problems already. Maybe in the morning, after John had got some sleep. Before work. In the shower. Or in the bed.
Yes, the bed. He thought about it again with a sleepy smile. He could just get up and go to bed. Sherlock didn't need him. He was talking to the skull, something about McKinney and Canadians and the army and poppies and the inadvisability of buying Chinese take away from hospital vending machines…
He'd just put on his pyjamas and curl up or maybe sleep naked – Sherlock liked that and John frankly liked it too. He sighed, pressing the weight of his head harder against his cheek.
Maybe tomorrow he didn't have to work. But no, it was already tomorrow, wasn't it? Maybe it was Saturday – he felt like it could be Saturday. Did he have a Saturday shift that week? There were so many patients, he hoped Mycroft didn't need to come in and see him…
"John!"
John snapped his eyes open suddenly, jerking upright, and blinked in confusion. The detective's blazing grey eyes narrowed a bit when John was able to focus on them.
"It is time for work?" John asked, his voice blurry from sleep – he hadn't even realized he'd drifted off. How long had he been dozing?
"Hardly," Sherlock sniffed. "It's just past two. I've been speaking to you for several minutes now."
"Oh," John said, leaning back slightly in his chair, glancing around the flat. He'd almost hoped that by some miracle it would be clean again. He thought of their bed and the downy pillows and the sheets with that high thread count Sherlock liked so much…
"John!"
"Right, right, I'm awake," he said, nodding to keep himself moving. "What is it?"
"They found the cabbie."
"The cabbie?" John asked, confusion coursing through him. He had a moment's disorientation, as if seven years had been removed – of course they'd found the cabbie, he'd died in that empty college classroom – why were they looking for a cabbie? He'd thought it was an ex-Canadian special forces soldier. Was he moonlighting as a cabbie? He thought about the moonlight – the kitchen often caught it but their bedroom didn't…
"No, John, wake up," Sherlock snapped, slapping the desk, and John jerked himself awake again. "The cabbie that drove Brace and our killer to the river."
At this, John came fully awake, blinking off the remnants of sleep.
"He's at the Yard with Lestrade," Sherlock said.
John heaved himself to his feet, feeling regret at the loss of another night's sleep.
"Let's go," he said.
Lestrade was looking harassed; it was an expression he adopted entirely too often as far as Sherlock was concerned. If he'd wanted a quiet life, he should have taken some menial job with no responsibility and no interaction with the public. And he should hardly be worried about this case. The military was handling it by and large, relying on the Met only for assistance and additional security, so really, it wasn't as though Lestrade had to expend a great deal of energy into catching this killer.
That was Sherlock's job anyway. The Met couldn't do this – at best they could chase their own tails and accomplish nothing. They didn't have the resources or the connections. Sherlock knew all too well that Mycroft would see to it that this remained a matter dealt with by the military police, if only to keep it largely out of the public eye. Somehow, he had even managed to keep his name out of the papers as the intended target of the explosion and was only numbered among the injured.
But they'd at least found the cabbie and had rounded him up. Sherlock let his eyes flicker over the driver through the one-way glass before he entered the interview room. The man was in his early fifties, of Indian descent, and obviously irritated that he'd been pulled off the job. He was scowling, not in the manner of someone on the defensive because he was surrounded by police officers, but in the manner of someone being inconvenienced.
Sherlock stepped into the room, followed by John. The cabbie's eyes flickered over both newcomers with disinterest, registering them then dismissing them. An experienced cabbie, then, used to acknowledging faces and not remembering them. Sherlock frowned – that didn't bode well.
He had faint calluses on his fingers where they gripped the wheel of his car for hours on end and was occasionally rotating his wrists to ease the stiffness that came from repetitive strain injuries. In all probability, he had observed that neither Sherlock nor John were intoxicated and were likely to pay their fares – but little else.
"Mister," Sherlock paused, picking up the cabbie's licence which the man had placed on the table for some police officer or another. "Ajid. My name is Sherlock Holmes, this is Doctor John Watson. I'd like you to tell me about the men you had in your cab earlier this evening. Maxen Brace and the man accompanying him."
"I've already talked to him," Ajid replied, nodding irately at Lestrade. "And that Sergeant Donovan. Told ya, I don't remember what he looked like."
"Could you describe him to a sketch artist?"
"Well yeah, if you want me to waste my time!"
"Mister Ajid, there is a professional killer in London at this very moment who pushed Mister Brace off of the Westminster Bridge after getting out of your cab, so I suggest you stop thinking about the money you could be making right now and start actually providing some details," Sherlock snapped in a cold tone, putting in all of the haughty authority that was his birthright. He so rarely had to use it – generally just a touch was enough – but he was running low on both time and patience.
It worked. Ajid stiffened and scowled but gave an ungracious nod.
Sherlock cast a quick glance at Lestrade.
"Call Holly Adams and have her come in."
"She's not on shift right now, Sherlock," Lestrade sighed.
"Pay her overtime then," Sherlock replied, bored with having to argue about it. "She's already done some work for me on this."
"What–"
"Do you have some fascination with asking useless questions?" Sherlock snapped. "Would you like to give our killer more time to plan his next assault? I'm sure no one will mind that, particularly as his attacks have become steadily more violent."
"Sherlock," John muttered under his breath but the detective ignored his husband. He didn't have time for niceties right now – the Met were dragging their feet on everything, slowing him down.
"Go!" Sherlock said, waving Lestrade out the door.
"Sherlock–" the DI began to protest and Sherlock threw his hands up in the air.
"Why am I even here if you don't want me to work, Lestrade?" he spat. Lestrade's eyes flickered to John, who was probably making some sort of conciliatory gesture, then back to Sherlock. He searched the detective's face, looking for something. Sherlock kept his expression neutral, making sure Lestrade didn't find it.
"All right," the inspector sighed. "Fine."
He left the room and left the door open. Sherlock didn't care – as long as more idiots didn't come in to interrupt him, it didn't matter who overheard.
"Describe your other passenger to me," he ordered, turning back to the cabbie. The man shot him a glare that Sherlock matched with one of his own, then Ajid sighed.
"I already told 'em, I don't remember. He was just some bloke."
"'Some bloke'? No, no, Mister Ajid, he was not just 'some bloke'. Think!" he smacked the table for emphasis, visibly startling the cabbie and John. "He looked like something! He wasn't simply a faceless stranger. Images, sounds, scents – whatever you remember!"
Ajid sighed, scowling.
"Average," he replied. "He was an average looking bloke. Not too tall, not like you, but taller than him," he nodded at John. "Mid forties, brown hair. That's all I remember."
"What shade of brown? Dark? Light?"
"Lighter. Like his." He nodded at John again.
"What about his voice, what did he sound like?"
"Nothin'. He didn't say anything."
Blast! Sherlock thought, biting his lower lip. He wouldn't have. Not if it would have identified him as being a foreigner because that was more likely to be remembered.
"What about Brace? What did he say?"
"Just told me where to go and that's it."
Sherlock drew back slightly, pausing for a moment. He had given the cabbie their destination, knowing he was going to die. Sherlock wondered if Brace knew how he was going to die, then suddenly realized how frightened he must have been. He glanced quickly back at John out of the corner of his eye again – the doctor had probably already thought of that.
Irrelevant, he told himself. Can't change it.
"Anything else? Any smells? Any scars or tattoos or piercings?"
"No! Look, I told you. Just a regular bloke. No glasses, no scars, nothin' interesting. No different than arf the people that get in my cab."
Except half the people who get into your cab are not assassins with military training, Sherlock thought. This was getting him nowhere. From the man's description, it may as well have been John, only taller. That didn't narrow it down much – in terms of colouring, John was not that distinctive. If he were sitting in the back of a cab, his height would probably go unremarked as well.
Just a regular bloke with the ability to get past Mycroft's security measures, Sherlock thought. Brilliant.
He saw Ajid's eyes flicker away from him back to the door, a somewhat startled expression on his face and Sherlock turned as Holly said:
"You know it's the middle of the night, right?"
He cocked a dark eyebrow at her.
"And you weren't at home sleeping, given how quickly you arrived and your questionable attire."
"That doesn't stop it from being the middle of the night, Sherlock," Holly sighed, folding her arms over the fabric of her short black dress. "And I was off duty, you know."
He shrugged. This was more important than some club. Holly stared at him, then shook her head, resigned.
"Mister Ajid, my name is Constable Holly Adams – although I appreciate I probably don't look like a constable right now. I'm a forensic artist. I'm going to work with you to get a sketch of the man you saw."
"The description he's provided is inadequate at best," Sherlock warned.
Holly sighed again.
"I'll see what I can do. First, though, I'm going to change and get my things. I'll be back in a few minutes."
She cast a glance at John that clearly commiserated with him about the late hour then ducked out of the room. Sherlock turned back to Ajid.
"I suggest you wrack that inferior memory of yours, Mister Ajid. You're the first person to see our killer and come out of it alive, so it's particularly in your best interests that he is caught."
The cabbie's eyes widened with alarm and Sherlock resisted the impulse to roll his own eyes – maybe that would force the man into cooperation. He gestured to John and left the room. Lestrade was standing down the hall with his arms folded, leaning against the wall.
"Got what you wanted?"
"Hardly," Sherlock sniffed. "As imperceptive as he is, it's a miracle he's not run anyone off the road."
"It's probably because he's paying attention to the road that he doesn't remember his fares," Lestrade sighed. "Holly will get what she can out of him."
"Yes, send me a scan of her sketch when it's complete."
"You're off?" Lestrade asked.
"Nothing more to do here. I've got to go speak with my brother."
"It's the middle of the night!"
"So people keep telling me – what do you expect me to do with that knowledge? Is repetition going to change the fact that Mycroft has yet to be informed? Perhaps if I stand here listening to it long enough, it will no longer be the middle of the night and therefore an acceptable hour to see my brother? Honestly, Lestrade, two in the morning, seven in the morning, what difference does it make when I go? Shall we ask our killer to conduct his business during regular hours? Oh, I'm sorry, we can't. We don't know who he is or where he is and thanks to Mister Ajid's inability to be observant about anything whatsoever, we barely know what he looks like."
Lestrade gave an exasperated sigh and Sherlock felt John stiffen and shift beside him. He strode away from the DI and hoped he wouldn't run into Anderson on the way out of the Yard – he'd wasted enough time already.
John hurried to keep up with him and when they'd left the building, Sherlock hailed a cab, holding the door for John. His husband looked at him, puzzled.
"Aren't you coming? I thought you said we were going to see Mycroft."
"No, I am going to see Mycroft. You are going home to get some sleep." He held up a hand to forestall the argument that was forming on John's lips. "You have work in the morning, John, and you're of no use to me half asleep, which you have been almost this entire time. You're also of no use to your patients in this state, as you've often pointed out. Go home."
"But–"
Sherlock sighed – had the entire world banded together and decided it was a day in which to argue with him?
"Go home, John. Get some sleep. You're dead on your feet."
John stared at him a moment longer, then nodded. He slipped into the cab and put his hand on the door handle but hesitated, looking up at Sherlock as if expecting something. Sherlock looked back down at him and nodded.
He gave the cabbie the address, leaning down slightly to catch the man's eye. "I'll see you later," he said to John. John sighed, nodded, and shut the door. Sherlock watched as the cab pulled away, ensuring it turned in the right direction and that John wasn't going to redirect it to Princess Grace. Satisfied that his husband was actually listening to him for once, he then stepped into the street, raised his hand, and hailed a cab of his own.
Anthea had already been to see Mycroft about Brace's death and McKinney's involvement and arrest, and Mycroft was still awake when Sherlock arrived. The detective was admitted to the room after a more thorough examination of his identification and a pat down for weapons. He suffered it silently but rolled his eyes several times. He was Mycroft's brother, after all. If he wanted to shoot Mycroft, he could easily do so when he was no longer in the hospital and under guard. Pointing this out had earned him a further delay.
Mycroft's injuries looked minutely better but he himself looked worse than he had since the bombing. He was tired, his eyes rimmed with dark circles, his face pale. He turned his head slowly when Sherlock came in the room – not in his normal languid, impassive way, however. This movement was tired and resigned.
It made Sherlock pause, a flash of anger coursing through him. No one had robbed Mycroft of his self-assurance before. Even when David had been abducted, he'd retained some of that unthinking superiority, that certainty that he was in the right regardless of the circumstances.
Now he simply looked exhausted.
But he managed to push himself to a somewhat straighter sitting position when Sherlock entered the room. Mycroft gestured for some water and Sherlock gave it to him without comment.
"Where's John?" his brother asked.
"At home sleeping," Sherlock replied curtly. "I have new information for you."
His brother nodded, sipping his water slowly. The faint wincing each time he swallowed meant the broken ribs were still bothering him. There had been talk of releasing him from the hospital, but Sherlock hoped Mycroft had the sense to stay until he could start walking on his leg again. He wasn't about to play nursemaid and he wasn't sure if Angela would. It was possible, he supposed.
He filled Mycroft in on the scant details that Ajid had provided to them, watching his brother's frown deepen. Sherlock promised to send Holly's sketch to both Mycroft and Anthea via text when he received it.
"I will need whatever additional information McKinney provides," Sherlock added when he'd finished briefing his brother.
Mycroft's frown twitched and deepened more.
"Sherlock, I think you need to turn over all of your information to Anthea."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes somewhat and tilted his head fractionally.
"Oh, I see. You want me to let you pursue this now."
"Yes," Mycroft said.
"Now that we have some concrete information and a possibility of catching him, you want me to abandon it."
"No, not abandon it," Mycroft corrected. "I'll take it from here."
Sherlock fought down a surge of irritation and regarded his brother with as level an expression as he could manage.
"Ten years now, Mycroft. Ten years you hounded me to take this case and when I did so in April, I came up with nothing."
"You found Kelsi Murray's body."
"But not her killer! And now I have the chance to do so, to capture a man who has at last known count murdered thirty-one people, thirty of those within the last week and a half. For a decade you knew nothing about him until I got involved."
"That's precisely why I want you to step back," Mycroft said. "He's interested in you."
"He should be – I'm a particularly interesting person. In that alone, at least, he has good taste. Mycroft, this is a weakness. Exploit it! That's what you do best! I will find him because he finds me fascinating. What would you do from your hospital bed anyway?" He gestured at Mycroft's recumbent figure, eyes raking over the casts and bandages. "I'm your best option and you've known that for a decade. Now that I've agreed to do it, you want me to stop."
He shook his head, pursing his lips.
"This is my case, Mycroft," he said simply. "See to it that Anthea gives me the information I need. Unless you no longer want it solved."
"Of course I do!" Mycroft snapped and Sherlock heard the edge of irritation overlying the exhaustion in his brother's tone.
"Then let me do my job. I'm certain the doctors would tell you that your priority is to rest and recover." He gave Mycroft a small, tight smile. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. Information from Anthea. I mean it."
Mycroft managed a slight nod.
"If you're sure, Sherlock."
"Of course I'm sure, when have you ever known me not to be? Good night, Mycroft. Do try and get some sleep. It will do you a world of good."
He let himself out of the small private room, clicking the light off on the way. Once in the corridor, he shook his head at Mycroft's idiocy and wondered if perhaps the painkillers were to blame or if Mycroft simply wanted the accomplishment for himself. That wasn't like him, though, so it was undoubtedly the drugs. He'd have to talk to John and find out what Mycroft was on and if it should be substituted for something that would allow him to think properly. Sherlock really did not need his brother's medications creating more problems than they already had on their hands at the moment.
Mycroft watched Sherlock leave, shutting the light off behind him. The sudden darkness silhouetted his brother in the doorway for a moment before Sherlock shut the door, leaving Mycroft alone. His outline, suddenly stark against the light from the corridor, was shocking.
Mycroft wondered if Sherlock knew.
The row with John and the case had left him haggard with bags under his eyes and had taken six pounds from him – six pounds he didn't really have to spare. Mycroft hadn't seen him this thin since the car crash, but he'd put the weight back on quickly then after being discharged from the hospital, eating under John's strict supervision. And that had been understandable. He'd been badly injured; he was bound to lose some weight.
This was different. This was Sherlock barely eating and sleeping. Mycroft didn't think his brother had taken up smoking again after John had caught him out – and he was fairly certain that Sherlock would not go back to the cocaine.
But fairly certain was not the same as entirely certain.
It had been a long time since he'd seen Sherlock operating on sheer adrenaline rather than a combination of adrenaline, something approaching a proper diet and adequate sleeping patterns. He was paler than normal and looked drawn and far too young.
Underfed, overtired, and pallid.
The same way he'd been before meeting John Watson.
Mycroft wondered what would happen to his brother if John left.